by C. C. Hunter
He continues removing nuts from the tire. His calm freaks me out. You don’t drop a bomb like that and go back to fixing a tire!
“Answer me!” I hit his leg with my foot.
He continues working. “I checked out your Instagram. Your photos are visible to the public. You should probably be careful about that.” He looks at me; his expression is unreadable.
I frown. “But how do you know we broke up?”
“Because there’s an image on his page of him and another girl. And I don’t think you’re the type who’d put up with that shit.”
I’m not sure how to react to that. Everything is jumbled up in my head. “What are you, some kind of a cybersleuth? Or a stalker?”
He goes back to working on my tire. “More of a sleuth.”
“Why are you sleuthing around the internet about me?”
“I thought we covered that earlier.”
“Because I look like someone you know?”
He nods.
“But if the person I look like is dead, why would you need to—?”
“She has a sister.” His tone is somehow different. Is he lying now? His eyes meet mine. “I thought she might try to hurt someone I care about.”
There’s so much honesty in those words, in his gaze, that I believe him. Or I think I do. “Why do I believe you one minute and not the next?”
He goes back to removing the last nut. “I don’t know. Maybe because you have trust issues.” He pulls the tire off and puts it down on the other side of him.
His tone was teasing, yet … He puts the spare on and tightens up the nuts. He lowers the jack and then pulls it out.
He’s right. I have trust issues. That’s what happens when your birth family gives you away and then the father who chose you decides he’d rather make house with someone new.
“You are hard to figure out,” I say.
“So are you.” He holds his hand out to help me up.
I almost reach for it, then stop.
“We could remedy that,” he says. “There’s a place up the street that serves coffee, chai tea, or whatever you’d like to drink.”
I get up, without his help, and dust the grit off my hands by swiping them on my jeans-covered butt.
“What do you say?” he asks.
I look at him, my head spinning. “I’m still debating.”
6
The tire trick worked like a gem, but it would’ve been easier if she’d let him use the Fix-a-Flat.
He got out of his car and saw her do the same on the other side of the parking lot. Her phone rang. Holding up one finger, she answered it.
“I don’t know. But I’m driving on the spare. Yeah, just a few minutes,” she said. “Okay.” She hung up and slipped her phone in her backpack. “My mom.”
He almost asked how her mom was doing, but stopped himself. “You live close to the school?” he asked, even though he’d gotten her address from the file.
“About a mile. In Oak Tree Park Subdivision. You?”
“Farther out,” he said. “Stallion Subdivision.”
“The one with the horse statue and a pond in front?” she asked.
He nodded and wondered if she judged him because he lived in the rich neighborhood. Some of the other kids at school threw it in his face last year.
Going in, she checked out the menu, and ordered a peach tea. He ordered a Coke. When he tried to pay for hers, she refused and handed over her credit card. Drinks in hand, he led the way to a table toward the back.
“This is a nice place,” she said.
“Yeah. I used to wash dishes here when I was fifteen.”
“Now?”
“I work part-time at a garage. Changing tires and such.” He smiled. “So, you like Joyful?”
“It’s okay.” That sounded like a lie.
“Where did you move from?”
She lifted a brow. “You didn’t find that info when you were sleuthing me out?”
He leaned back in the chair. “Okay. El Paso. Do you miss it?”
She told him how the two towns differed. It was small talk, but he hung on to every word. Afterwards, she sipped her tea and stared at him over the paper cup. “Now it’s my turn.”
“Your turn?”
“You dug up info on me behind my back. I’m going to do it the proper way and ask.”
“So you’re all proper-like, huh?” he said, trying to sound casual and change the subject.
She didn’t answer. And he got the feeling she was still ticked about the whole Instagram thing.
He hated questions, but he knew this game well, and if he didn’t give something, she’d clam up. “Okay. What do you want to know?”
She stared at her tea as if mentally combing through a list.
He wondered what she already knew about him. So much of his private business was already out there. He remembered Paul calling him out as a foster kid, as if it were something he should be ashamed of. Little did anyone know, he was much more ashamed of his life before he became a ward of the state.
“Why didn’t you fit in at the old school?”
He shrugged. “They’re rich kids, privileged. They think they can’t be held accountable for their actions. And the school seems to think that, too.”
She ran a finger down her cup. “So what made you leave?” She stared right in his eyes, as if looking for a truth.
Yup. He knew the game. Tell them something personal. They’ll think they know you, and will answer questions easier. Normally, this was where he’d make some crap up, but for some reason, he didn’t feel like faking it.
He tightened his shoulders. “I didn’t leave. I got kicked out.”
Her eyes flickered. “What did you do?”
Hadn’t he been ready for this? It still hit a nerve. “Why do you automatically assume I did something?”
Her brows pinched. “Because you said you got kicked out. You don’t get kicked out for nothing.”
“Right. But you assume it’s my fault.”
She stared at him. His gut said he was giving her a hell of a lot more than he’d wanted to.
“I’m not assuming. I’m asking.”
He hesitated, angry for not faking it, but he couldn’t back out now. “You want the truth? Or do you want me to pretty it up for you?”
“The truth.” Yet the way she moved back in her chair said she preferred pretty.
He gave her the middle-of-the-road version: “Three of their football players were taking advantage of a girl. I stopped them. When I was done, one guy had a broken jaw.”
She gasped. “Was it your girlfriend?”
“No. The girl didn’t give a shit about me. Which should’ve meant I didn’t give a shit about her. But I did. Those guys lied and said I just barged in, wanting a fight.”
“But what about the girl? Surely she—”
“Denied it to the cops.”
“But how could she…? Why?”
“She was embarrassed. And besides, she really wanted to make cheerleader and thought if she told, she might not make the team. She was sorry I got in trouble for helping her.” He exhaled. “But I know it’s common. Victims not wanting to say anything.”
“Yeah, but…” Chloe put her palms on the table and leaned forward. She looked angry. It should have felt good, but it didn’t. He felt exposed.
“It’s still messed up.” Her mouth thinned.
“Yeah, it was.” Maybe it did feel a little good.
They both leaned back in silence, as if they both needed a time-out. He knew he did.
When she looked up, he took the lead. “So, my turn?”
She blinked. “I guess.”
Are you trying to con the Fullers?
He couldn’t ask that. “Why were you upset at the convenience store?”
She looked taken aback, but then sighed. “You want the truth? Or do you want me to pretty it up for you?”
He grinned, liking that she really listened. “The truth.”
&n
bsp; “I was pissed at my dad.”
“For?”
“How much time do you have?” She smiled, but there was a sadness to it.
“All day,” he replied, and meant it. He needed to figure her out. But a little voice said that wasn’t all.
He liked watching her talk, her expressions, and how she moved her hands.
Liked listening to her voice, though he could do without the glint of sadness in her eyes.
“Up until a year ago, he was, like … the best dad ever. The dad who’d take me and my friends to school dances. When he picked us up, he’d take us out to eat at two in the morning. Then—” She paused. “—then he cheated on my mom with someone only seven years older than me. Now she’s living with him. He’s making a fool out of himself, trying to act younger, dyeing his hair, using gel. Oh, and he let her have my room for her gym. She has a Thighmaster and these weird machines where my bed used to be.”
Her voice inched up. “She wears skirts up to here!” She lifted her hand up high. “And a neckline down to here.” She placed her hand low on her breasts. His gaze went there, but he didn’t let it linger, even though he wanted to. “Oh, and he told me he would call me the first day of school and he didn’t. Because he’s too busy screwing Tight Ass.”
Cash laughed, but when he saw her painful expression, he pulled it in. “Sorry. That sucks.”
“Yeah. It sucks.” She pushed her drink away, then sighed. Sighed just like Ms. Fuller did when she was disappointed. A deep sad sound that hurt him to hear. A sound that made him want to believe her.
She looked up, and he could see her holding back tears. “Sorry I unloaded on you. So not cool.”
“Hey, I asked.”
“I have to go,” she said abruptly, and was out the door in a flash.
Still wondering what had happened, he watched out of the window as her car drove off. When he looked down, he saw her credit card still lying on the table.
* * *
An hour later, he’d finished his homework at the coffee shop and decided to buy a little time before running by Chloe’s house to give her the credit card.
He dialed the Fullers’ home phone and was surprised when it was Mr. Fuller who answered. “Hey, I was going to call you. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” Cash answered. “I stopped off at a friend’s to do homework. Is it okay if I show up around six?”
“Sure. It’s just you and me tonight. Susan had an emergency at the hospital. I thought we’d go out and bring her something back. Maybe pick up ice cream, too.”
“It’s that kind of emergency?” Cash’s chest tightened.
Mr. Fuller was a general practice doctor and didn’t have that many emergencies. Mrs. Fuller’s crises meant she either lost a patient or one was in bad condition. She always took it hard.
“Afraid so,” he answered.
Cash wasn’t so close to Mr. Fuller, but he couldn’t deny how much the man loved his wife. For that alone, Cash respected him.
Some of the distance was Cash’s own fault. After eleven years with his dad, and some not-so-great foster dads, he’d resisted a father figure. Mr. Fuller made an effort, though. Last year, after Cash had started taking college classes and dating older girls, Mr. Fuller gave him the sex talk and a pack of condoms.
“You want barbecue or pizza?” Mr. Fuller asked.
“I think she likes barbecue better.”
“Sold. Don’t be later than six. I want to be back before she gets home.”
“Why don’t I just meet you at the restaurant?”
When Cash hung up, he considered how all the Chloe stuff would affect Mrs. Fuller. If he went to them now, and it turned out Chloe wasn’t Emily Fuller, that could bring back all the pain of losing her the first time, like it had when that guy conned her last year. Cash couldn’t say anything to them until he was sure.
* * *
Mom and I are waiting for my tire to be replaced. The television in the waiting room is talking politics. We are thumbing through magazines. I remember when Mom used to go through magazines to find characters for her books. It’s sad she stopped writing.
I look over and she’s staring at a magazine, wearing her faded bandanna. Normally, she wears a wig when we go out. Not today. I can’t wait for her hair to grow back. For her to gain weight. I’m tired of her looking like the walking dead.
“Did you eat lunch today?” I flip the page.
She looks up. “Yes.”
“What did you eat?”
“A sandwich. I think.”
“With chips?”
“No.”
“You should have eaten chips.”
She grins. “Are you the food police?”
“No. I’m your daughter who thinks you’re too thin. Seriously, you need to eat more. We should go out for an early dinner. Something fattening.”
“Pizza?” She grins.
“With extra cheese.”
“Deal.”
“And you’re having a beer.”
She chuckles. “I can’t drink with my meds.”
“What meds?”
“The pill I take for three years that helps keep cancer away.”
I sit up straighter, a pain lodging in my chest. “Do they think it’ll come back?”
“No.” She bumps me with her shoulder. “The medicine is to assure it doesn’t.”
I nod, suddenly worried.
“Holden?” A man wearing coveralls walks in from the garage.
“Here.” Mom stands.
“Good news. There’s nothing wrong with your tire.”
“But it was flat!” I say.
“Well, sometimes a tire can go low due to change in temperature, but since that hasn’t happened, I’d say someone let your air out.”
“Why would someone do that?” Mom asks me.
“I don’t know.” Then I recall Cash standing beside my car. He wouldn’t, would he?
“Could be worse,” the mechanic says. “They could have sliced your tires.”
* * *
At four thirty, Chloe still wasn’t home. The same at five. Finally, at five thirty, Cash saw her car and pulled into the drive.
He grabbed her credit card and slipped it into his front pocket. Stepping up on the porch, he saw a big window with the curtains open. He peered in. A woman was sitting at the dining room table. She was wearing a bandanna, but beneath it, there wasn’t any hair. Her cheekbones were too prevalent. Her eyes sunken in.
The sight yanked him back to when his dad had shaved Cash’s hair and eyebrows for a photo. He’d lost ten pounds, going hungry for almost a month; then his dad put makeup beneath his eyes to make him look even worse. It worked. His dad had been proud of the money people donated to save his sick boy.
But this woman wasn’t wearing makeup. His chest hurt for Chloe. Was her mom going to pull through? He even hurt for Mrs. Fuller. This was the type of patient she saw. The kind who died on her no matter how hard she tried to save them.
Taking a resigned breath, he knocked. The woman’s gaze found his in the window. When she stood, she looked even thinner.
The front door opened, and he introduced himself. “Hi. I’m Cash. I go to school with Chloe. Is she home?”
The woman smiled. “Come in. I’m JoAnne Holden, Chloe’s mom. She’s in her room.” She called out, “Chloe?”
He walked inside. A red tabby cat, just like Felix, jumped down from a chair.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“No. Thank you.” His palms felt sweaty. Was he just nervous to meet the mom? Or was it that this woman could’ve been the one who kidnapped Emily Fuller that made him uncomfortable?
Chloe walked in. Her posture was tight, her eyes accusing. Weren’t they past that stage?
“Let’s go in the backyard.” She darted past him.
He nodded at her mom and followed Chloe through the living area and onto a back patio.
She swung around. “Shut the door.”
He
did, but the look in her eyes said he’d better find an escape route.
“How did you know where I live?”
Her question brought a whisper of relief. He had this. “You told me you lived in Oak Tree Subdivision. I drove around until I spotted your car. I brought this to you.” He pulled her credit card out of his pocket. “You left it.”
She took it, suspicion still tightening her eyes. “Did you let the air out of my tire?”
The question came out punchy and hit him right in his solar plexus. He’d known this might come up, and his plan had been to deny it. That was still his plan, but now it felt weak.
“Your tire didn’t have a leak?” Did that sound convincing? Shit, it hadn’t. He should’ve sliced the tire, but that would’ve cost her money.
“No.” Her hand settled on her hip. “Did you let the air out?”
“Why would I do that?” Answer a question with a question. It throws people off.
“I don’t know. But someone did it. And you were there.”
She wasn’t easily thrown. “And I fixed it. I don’t like changing tires that much. Wow, you really do have trust issues, don’t you?”
From her expression, he gathered that was the wrong thing to say. “Yeah, I do. And right now, I don’t trust you.”
“Fine. Go online to make sure I didn’t use your card.” He shoved the card at her, then left through the outside gate.
What was messed up was that he felt hurt she didn’t believe him, even though she was completely right not to.
7
It was eleven when Cash’s stomach decided he needed dinner. He hadn’t had much of an appetite after he left Chloe’s and had spent most of the evening up in his room after meeting Mr. Fuller to pick up barbecue.
When he quietly walked downstairs and opened the fridge, he saw Mrs. Fuller sitting in the dining room—in the dark. Felix, her cat, was stretched out on the table, and she was slowly stroking his fur. Her back was to him, but she had to have heard him come in.
He went and stood beside her. She put Felix on the floor and wiped her cheeks before she looked at him.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She nodded. “Everyone is.”